


Far away

by l_cloudy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AGOT spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a whole year he'd been dreaming of going to the East and join the Golden Company, with the Blackfyres and the men of the Free Cities. A place where no one would have cared what his name meant, where most people would've said, <em>Snow? We don't get it here,</em> and laughed it all away.'</p><p>AU. Jon goes the opposite way, to Pentos instead of the Wall.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story undergoing editing as of Jan 2016. It was sorely needed.

Jon Snow was seven years old when he first heard about the lands across the Narrow Sea.

It had been a singer who first told him, a white-haired man tough as an old oak, who'd talked of Old Valyria and its dragons, of Qarth and the warlocks, of the Nine Free Cities and the disputed lands. At seven years of age, Jon had liked the sound of that – the _Free_ Cities. He was already old enough to know that he wasn't like his brothers, and nor could he ever be, but still young enough to believe in honor and adventures and _glory_.

He was ten-and-two when he first was told the story of the Golden Company, of the children of Aegor Bittersteel and his brother Bloodraven, the pale demon. Jon already knew of the Blackfyre Rebellion, of course, the story he had been taught together with Robb, the one he could never quite recite because he always found himself thinking, _What if the Bastard had won?_ , and he was too afraid the others would catch on it. Jon knew all this and more, but that day was when he realized that Bittersteel and the founder of the Golden Company were one and the same, and that the scum and the exiled of Westeros could find some small measure of glory, under the warm Eastern sun.

Jon was ten-and-four when the King came to Winterfell, the night he got drunk for the first time and learned that life is never fair, the night a dwarf gave him the best advice of his life.

Tyrion Lannister called him, _Bastard_ , with no malice at all, the same way his brothers might have said, _Jon,_ and he liked that. Not in that very moment – Lannister had made him think about things he'd never wanted to think about, said words he'd never wanted to hear, and it had unsettled him. But that night, lying in his bed, still half-tipsy from all the wine, Jon had thought back to those words. Make it your strength, he'd said.

Two days after that, Father had sent for him in his solarium, looking has though he'd have rather not being there.

“Jon,” Lord Eddard had started. “I will be leaving for King's Landing in a fortnight.”

Jon already knew that, and merely nodded, and his father spoke up again. “What would you like to do?” 

It was a direct question, surely not the question Jon had been expected. He already knew what his place was, he always had, and he thought he already knew what his future would have been – the Night's Watch, protecting the realm from the dangers beyond the Wall. As much as Benjen had acted surprised to Jon's revelation the night of the feast, he'd already known. Everyone at Winterfell had. 

And then Jon remembered something else Benjen had said, before his drunken outburst. You don't know what you're asking, Jon. Did he? There was, after all, a lot of time to join the Watch – a whole lifetime. But once he swore the oath, that would've been it, bound to the Wall for the rest of his life.

 _You don't know what you're asking,_ Benjen said again in his head. 

And then Jon spoke up. 

“I'd like to go East, Father.”

From the look on Lord Eddard's face, he hadn't been expecting those words. To be honest, neither had Jon, until he'd heard them coming out of his mouth.

“Jon…” his father started saying, unsure of what to say next. “Why?” He asked, eventually.

He shrugged, not sure of how to explain his sudden ambition. “I want to go see places, Father. Do things… ” And Lord Eddard's ears picked up the words he'd wanted say, but didn't dare speaking out loud. _I want to make a name for myself in a place where I won't be Eddard Stark's bastard anymore_.

His father nodded then, slowly. “So be it. The East you say.”

It was Jon's turn to nod, now. “Yes.”

“Do you wish to become a squire?”

He didn't know what he wished. He nodded again, more slowly this time. “Yes.”

Lord Eddard took a deep breath, a hint of _something_ in his eyes. “You will leave for White Harbor in three days. After that, I know of a ship to Pentos.”

He paused again, leaving Jon unsure of whether he ought to answer or not. After a whole minute passed in silence, he decided to speak.

“Thank you, my Lord.” And he moved towards the door.

“Jon,” Lord Eddard called, when he was about halfway through it. “Once you leave, the Free Cities are months away.”

He understood that well enough. _Once you leave, you are on your own_.

“I know, Father.”

 _Once you leave, you are on your own_. It didn't worry him at all. To Jon, it sounded like a promise.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jon said his farewells in those three days, wandering about the castle of his childhood. He went walking with Bran and practiced swordplay with Robb under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrick, still sour from his confrontation with Clegane and the young Prince. He went to his little sister and told her they'd see each other again, and then to Mikken to ask him for a bravo's blade, to be delivered to Arya and, more important, to be kept a secret from Lord Eddard. Mikken laughed at that, and promised he wouldn't say a word.

He bid farewell to Sansa, who was too absorbed in her chats with Jeyne Poole to pay attention, and to Rickon, who cried and begged him not to leave. Jon talked to Benjen too, and the calm look on his Uncle's face told him he understood, and to the Lady Catelyn, who seemed sincerely relieved to see him go. _Be safe_ , she told him, with only a hint of the contempt she usually showed him, and Jon believed she actually meant it. He wished some things had gone differently.

Jon went to his father last, on the morning of his departure. They left Winterfell together, Lord Eddard with the King's party to go hunting, and Jon with Wyl and Red Karyl, the men his father had dispatched to bring some message to Lord Manderly and, Jon suspected, to keep an eye on him for as long as he could.

"Jon," Father called, a pensive look on his face.

"I made a promise, once," it was as though he were discussing with himself, choosing his words carefully. Eventually he shook his head, and sighed. "It does not matter now. It's too soon yet."

And before Jon could ask him what he meant, his father gave him a small smile, and the moment had passed.

"Be safe, Jon," Lord Eddard said, the same way his lady wife had and, for the first time in his life, Jon felt utterly and completely content with being who he was. A bastard he was, but Eddard Stark's son all the same, and he was proud of it.

"I will."

And if Jon thought his father looked as though he would have wanted to add something else, he didn't say a word. _Maybe when I'll come back he'll tell me_ , Jon thought, and rode away dreaming of dreams to be lived and glory to be won, leaving his past behind.

* * *

White Harbor was an old lady of the sea, Jon thought, warm and hospitable and vibrant, with none of the glacial, distant beauty of Winterfell. They had made it in under ten days, following the White Knife, Ghost already big enough to keep the pace of the horses.

On the first day the direwolf had started howling, and they could not make him stop. Wyl had turned to look back at the direction they'd come from, muttering something about _signs_ , and Jon's heart felt heavy in his chest.

But when they reached White Harbor there was no raven waiting for them, no _dark words_ , and he relaxed. Some corner of Jon's mind still worried though, thinking that maybe something had happened, and he hadn't been warned because he was _gone_ , not one of them anymore, but then he forced himself to calm down, thinking that it was probably nothing, and even if there was something he hadn't been informed of, Jon was already too far to do anything about it anyway.

That didn't stop him from leaving a letter though, asking Maester Theomore to send words to his father and messages for Robb and Arya. He found himself thinking of his little sister's face when she'd see the sword he had made for her, of her gray eyes sparkling in delight. When they'd meet again she would know how to use it, of that Jon was certain.

The day of his arrival Jon got to meet Lord Wyman Manderly himself, a pleasant, amiable man whose eyes betrayed his cleverness. He learned the content of the letter his father had given him, in which he'd asked him to place Jon with one of Lord Manderly's acquaintances in the city, and that his ship, the _Winged Maiden_ , would leave in half a fortnight.

In White Harbor, Jon Snow was just another boy. Lord Manderly had given him a room that was comfortable enough, but not as much as his room in Winterfell had been, and had one of the kitchen maids bring him meals in there, but he had some important guests to attend to and didn't invite him to share his bread and salt.

Jon realized he didn't particularly mind. The Lord's guards hadn't know his name and didn't care to learn it, only seeing him as one of Lord Stark's men, and most of them told him off when he got too close, but no one called him _bastard_ , and some seemed to like him well enough, telling him which parts of the city were the best, and offering to teach him some dice games.

Jon refused to gamble – he meant to keep the coins his father had given him for as long as he could – but learned all the games and visited every corner of White Harbor. By the fourth day, he'd started eating with the guards.

In those few days of freedom, Jon wandered all day, alone or with Ghost, and learned more things than he usually did in a year at Winterfell. He learned how fresh sea fish tasted like, and how the sea looked like at dawn. He swam in water so bitter that a mouthful made him cough and spit in disgust and saw the city's stone walls shine under the sun. He even met a whore, a honey-haired woman with brown eyes and a tired face. She didn't look at all how Jon had expected a whore to look like, and he even asked her why she did it, did she truly have no other path in life? And the woman had laughed without mirth.

"No one'll have me now," she'd said. "And I'll make more this way." And then she'd looked at him, really looked, not as a man to entice to her bed, but as a boy who'd only seen one winter.

"I've got a daughter about yer age."

That night in his bed, Jon thought back to the brown-eyed woman, and wondered where his mother was. If she knew about him at all.

The day after that was his last one in Westeros and, to Jon, it couldn't have passed quickly enough. He wrote yet another letter for Robb, giving it to Wyn this time, and thanked Lord Manderly for having him as his guest. Lord Manderly, who knew as well as Jon did that he'd been entertaining Florents all week and had never invited him to share his meat and mead, merely smiled at that. _You do your Lord father proud_ , he said, and Jon felt himself swelling with pride.

He took his things with him, said his goodbyes and went down to the harbor.

The captain of the _Winged Maiden_ was Westerosi, a one-eyed man from Lannisport, but some of his crew were from the Free Cities. Two of the men were only a few years older than Jon; Daori, a Lyseni who was as pretty as a young maid, and Dannil, a Dornishman. They grumbled and complained of having a wolf on board, albeit a small one, and showed him to move on a ship, how to tie knots and scrub a deck.

They played the games Jon learned in White Harbor, and the two sailors are even more unwilling to part from their coins than Jon is, so they end up playing for secrets and stories. As the ship traveled from White Harbor to Braavos, Jon learned tales of the wonders of the East, of the horselords and _Maegis_ and the Red Waste.

They even talked women one night, Daori bragging of how beautiful Lyseni women are, and Dannil laughing and telling stories of the hot blooded women of Dorne, Jon listening closely. He was born in Dorne, or so he'd been told, from the whispers of the kitchen maids and drunk guardsmen, and wondered often what it would have been like living there, that land so red and spicy and _warm_ , where most people would never know winter.

The times that it was Jon's turn to speak, he never gave much away. He talked of the North and its summer snows, of walking on frozen rivers and finding Ghost and swimming in the moat, but never said a word of his father and his family. Not that it stopped Donnil from glancing at him sometimes, a knowing look in his eyes, and Jon knew he'd recognized his name. He hadn't born far from Starfall, he'd said, a name Jon had heard once or twice at Winterfell, hushed murmurs that stopped whenever he passed by, but Jon had heard enough to know that Starfall was where the Sword of the Dawn had been from, Bran's hero, and that Lord Eddard didn't like to be reminded of the friend he'd had to slain.

They stopped in Braavos first, and Jon got to see the Titan, bigger than anything he'd ever seen before. He noticed how the city had no walls at all, and briefly thought of _the_ Wall and wondered if it would've been bigger than the Titan, when the thing started _roaring_ and he forgot everything altogether. He was on a ship in a place he didn't know, whose language he didn't speak, wood under his feet and the smell of sea and salt in the air, and it was _freedom_.

* * *

In Braavos, he went ashore with the crew, leaving Ghost on the ship. He bought oysters from a man called Beqqo and ate on the way to the temple of the Moonsingers, walked among the canals and the stone houses, and wandered about the harbor while some of the men went to the Happy Port, where some of the girls were as pretty as any highborn lady.

After Braavos it was almost the same distance to Pentos, but to Jon time passed in a heartbeat. It seemed to him that it was only two or three days from the canals of Braavos to the hills and plans of Pentos, the city a white sliver against the bright green of its fields.

The _Winged Maiden_ was bound for Mys after that, and Jon found himself once again saying his goodbye. It seemed to be a constant of his new life, he mused, while making his way through the city. Meeting all sorts of people, and seeing them go away.

Lord Manderly had told him to go to the Prince's Palace and look for a man called Berqo Nemassi, the son of a mercenary and a Westerosi lord's bastard daughter from the Stormlands. Berqo was a captain at the Palace, or so Jon had been told, a man who has been in his position long enough to have seen three Princes chosen and crowned and butchered, and was now serving a fourth. Jon found him easily enough, playing dice in the guardsmen' quarters, a bulky man with blue eyes and brown hair, perhaps as old as Jon's father.

"And who are you?" he asked in seeing him, the corrupted Valyrian of his words sounding strange to Jon's ears.

He just handed him Lord Manderly's letter and didn't say a word, giving a look around while he read. The soldiers' quarters in the Palace weren't unlike Winterfell's own, but for the lack of hearths; and the men themselves looked as though they might have been from the Seven Kingdoms, except for some who were too dark-skinned or fair-haired to be Westerosi. Jon briefly wondered what the Lord of White Harbor might have written, what bound him to a Pentoshi guard, or how had Lord Eddard known about him.

Meanwhile, Berqo had read through Lord Manderly's letter, and yanked him away to a corner. "What's your name, lad?"

He'd used the Common Tongue this time, though Jon didn't know whether he'd done it out of courtesy or simply not to be heard. He answered in the same language.

"Jon Snow."

The guardsman let out something that might have resembled a smile after hearing that, but Jon didn't mind. For the first time in his life, he knew he could say his name without weariness or doubt, and he'd done just that. _Never forget what you are_ , he heard Tyrion Lannister say, _make it your strength_.

Berqo's eyes flicked towards Ghost, standing quiet at Jon's side, and then again to his face. "And whose son are you, Jon Snow? Surely not my old friend Wyman's, I hope. It would be kind of him, to send away his own flesh and blood like this."

"Eddard Stark's," Jon muttered through his teeth, vowing to himself this would be the last time he spoke of his father. "And I left Westeros out of my own choice."

The man's smile became even wider. "Of course you did, Jon Snow. Looking for ransom and glory? Or maybe," he leaned in closer, "looking for the fair Courtesans of Braavos and the Valyrian beauties of Lys?"

Jon felt his blood rushing to his face, and was about to reply when Berqo spoke again. "Because you won't find 'em here, lad. All you'll find is sweat and blood, and death if you're unlucky." He paused. "All the rest, that will be later. If the Gods are with you."

Jon nodded. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. Life seldom was.

"Alright, lad. Come with me." He turned to one of the men he'd been chatting with, and yelled something, words too fast for Jon to understand.

Berqo led him out of the Palace and across the narrow streets of the inner city, and then to a part of Pentos that was neither rich nor poor, into a small house that was still much wider, and cleaner, than Jon had expected the house of a soldier to be.

"I will give you a place to stay," the man said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. "And food to eat, and I'll teach you how to not get killed."

"The real thing," he added, as Jon made a motion to speak. "The real, dirty thing, not that fancy swordplay you've been taught, if you've been taught anything at all. And I'll get half of your pay for as long as you'll stay here, lad, I'm not a septa."

"Half of my pay?"

Jon wasn't quite able to keep the surprise away from his voice, and Berqo laughed. "Shit, yes. You are a man now, not a fosterling, Jon Snow, and I'm no Ser looking for a squire, just a captain of the guards. I'll teach you how to fight for real and get you a place with my lads. That, or you're gone."

He nodded at that, and the man spoke once again. "Do you even speak the language?"

Jon felt himself flushing once again. "Some. Not the dialect." He knew his High Valyrian well enough, though he never had to speak it before, but the raw jargon spoken on the streets was another thing.

Berqo sighed. "You don't know the dialect, you don't speak the language. It's soldiers and beggars and whores you'll be talking to, not Magisters and nobles." He paused to scrub his cheek before adding. "You won't be needing to do much talking at all at the beginning, just standing straight with a sword. But _do_ try to learn fast, Jon Snow."

He'd gotten sick of that. "You can call me Jon, captain. I won't mind."

The answer seemed to surprise him, and he laughed. "So you _do_ have balls after all, kid. But I'll call you whatever I want, and your name's got a nice ring to it. Jon Snow, I like that." He shook his head, and winced when he looked at Ghost. He seemed to have forgotten of the direwolf's presence but, then again, most people did. "What's that bloody thing?"

Ghost moved a little, picking up the hostility in the other man's voice, but stayed silent. Jon sighed. He'd hoped to keep passing off Ghost for a dog, as he'd done when entering the Palace, but it seemed like Berqo had realized the difference.

"Ghost's a direwolf."

"A dire –" and he laughed again. "Shit it _is_ , isn't it? You know how _big_ it's going to get?" Once again Jon caught himself wondering just who the man was and how he knew some things, and then the captain spoke again. "You can't keep a beast like that in a city, lad."

Jon hesitated. He'd thought about that, too, after seeing how the crew of the Winged Maiden acted around the direwolf, small as he was. He'd counted in leaving the city before he got too big, but now he didn't know how long he'd stay in Pentos. He didn't know anything of what his future may bring.

In the end, he merely shrugged, and Berqo let it go.

"It'll be impressing, no doubt." He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a renewed strength in his voice. "I'll be going back to the Palace now. You get yourself settled, feed your wolf..." he added the last part in an amused note, "there's a cot there."

He moved, and was about to go through the door when he turned and spoke again. "Don't go wander, I'll be back before dusk. Steal anything and I'll break your neck." And then, the amused voice again.

"Welcome to Pentos, Jon Snow."

 


	3. Chapter 3

The pay of a guardsman of the Prince was about three times that of Lord Stark men-at-arms; but Pentos was a large city, and living in it was more expensive than in the North. In those first few days, Jon often caught himself wondering whether he'd made the right choice in accepting Berqo's arrangement, or whether he'd been better off on his own.

He had to rethink that the day he first saw the man fight.

Watching the sturdy Captain of the guards with a sword in his fist was like watching a mountain lion advancing on his prey, all graceful moves and deadly grace. The sight of him reminded Jon of the stories he'd heard at Winterfell, Old Nan telling tales of the Dance of Dragons and the Young Dragon's conquest of Dorne, and Lord Eddard's stories of Robert's Rebellion and the Sword of the Dawn.

The man was no Arthur Dayne though, as Jon was quick to realize. He fought dirty, always slipping sideways and throwing hits that would have made Ser Rodrick wince, but he always won in the end. _Honor is a pretty thing_ , Berqo told him during that first spar, _but it's skill that keeps you alive in the end_. And Jon couldn't help but imagine how his father would have answered that, but he complied, and kicked the other man in the shins before going in for an attack.

He was flat on his back five seconds later, and Berqo was laughing.

“Well done,” he said. “Move your feet next time. And hit harder.”

And Jon smiled, tasting blood in his mouth. _I'll remember that_.

They practiced swordplay every day before supper, and riding and archery in the afternoons. But the art of the sword was what Berqo truly excelled in, and Jon found himself enjoying the challenge more and more every day. He'd been one of the best blades in Winterfell despite his young age, better than Harwin and Desdmond and almost as good as Jory Cassel, but he barely won once every five times now.

They used steel, of course, with blunted edges, and Jon had blushed furiously when the other man had realized he'd only practiced with wooden swords before. They even used live steel once, something Rodrick Cassel would have never allowed, and Jon had walked away from that one with a long, burning slash on his right arm and smiling like baby Rickon on his nameday.

Jon spent his nights patrolling.

Berqo had placed him under the command of a man called Gozzo, a slim Mereenese serjeant who was the tallest man Jon had ever seen. Gozzo's men were loud, rude and surprisingly familiar, not really what he'd been expecting. Soldiers, Jon concluded after a fortnight living in Pentos, were the same everywhere, men who liked to gamble and fight and curse and sell their services for a piece of bread.  
  
He told Berqo as much one night, and the man laughed. “Men are not the same, Jon Snow,” he said, candlelight dancing in his eyes. “It’s only a sweet lie your Septons tell you. Men are beggars and kings and cowards and thieves; they just bleed all the same way.”

“They're not _my_ Septons,” Jon had started saying, angrily, before the full meaning of the other man's words sunk in. It didn’t seem to make much sense. “If you say we all bleed all the same, then what's the difference?”

Berqo laughed once again. “No difference, lad, if dying's all you care about. Me, I want to live, first, and life isn’t that simple.” He paused to look Jon straight in the eyes before speaking again. “You thinking of you and your brother, Jon Snow?”

“No.”  
  
Jon hadn't been thinking of Robb and Winterfell, not really. Truth be told, he hadn't thought of home in days, since that night Berqo had almost broken his leg while sparring. He'd been walking with a limp ever since, spending every waking hour going through the fight in his mind, but the man's words had awoken emotions Jon had thought long discarded.

His face must have given away his thoughts, and Berqo spoke again.

“Don't fool yourself into thinking you're like 'em, lad. We’re not all the same and going on believing that will get you nothing good in the long run. We’re all born different and the life you make for yourself, that's what makes you who you are.”

 _The life you make_ , Jon liked the sound of that. He would come to like it so much he'd think of it many times in the months and years to follow, of the house in Pentos and the night and the candles. He would be older and bitter and wearier, his world already crashed and burned around him. The life you make, Jon would remember on that day, and make his choice.

* * *

Pentos was a city full of life, fragrant and warm and decadent, full of vices and promises; and as different from Winterfell as fire from ice. It was beautiful in its own way, white houses and sinuous streets, and from a distance it looked like a white gem on a green field, be it the grass of the plains or the waters of the Narrow Sea

Jon made a point of seeing that with his own eyes as many times as he could, going out of the city every other day, Ghost on his heels. The direwolf kept growing, albeit not as fast as Berqo's stories had made him believe, and Jon could almost feel his energy and restlessness. In a few months, the direwolf would become too big to pass for a dog; and Jon spent many nights wondering what he would do then.  
  
Ghost also kept eating, but that was an easier problem to solve, as the clump of trees around Pentos swarmed with some of the small animals of summer, hares and roes and small deer. This far East there was no other kind of game, and most men didn’t even know what a bear looked like. _Wild beasts_ , Jon had heard some of the other guardsmen say, with the voice a Northman might have used to talk of direwolves. Or dragons.

Jon and the rest of Gozzo's men were usually on patrol duty, spending their nights walking the streets near the Prince's Palace, over and over again. Sometimes they were on guard duty during the day, on special days when more guards were required. Some other times they were dispatched to the city walls, but it was patrolling most of the times, and Jon learned soon enough his way around, the best inns, the safest parts and the poorest quarters.

All in all, it wasn't a bad way to live; not by any means, it just wasn't the way Jon wanted to spend his whole life. He didn't know what he wanted, not yet, but he was sure it would be something good, something intense and exciting. Jon Snow was in the grip of confusion the way many youths are, with uncertain ideas of a vague tomorrow, indefinite and still glowing and promising.

His future was a mystery, Jon knew. But it would be great.

That soon become a mantra Jon repeated to himself every day, every time Berqo's blunt blade left a bruise on his body. He dreamed of battles to be fought and glory to be won, and every moment he didn't spend at the Palace or with Ghost he was in the yard, throwing arrows and knives and punches, hitting dummies with practice swords and trying to hold a spear while riding the way Westerosi knights did. He probably as good as Robb now, Jon estimated, and the feat that filled him with pride. The captain of the guards could still knock him flat on his back almost every time, but their duels were getting longer, and Jon had been able to throw in a good hit once or twice.

“How you met Lord Manderly?”  
  
They'd just finished their evening spar, and Jon had managed to win two times out of five. He'd never felt more tired in his life, and rarely more satisfied with himself, and once again he'd found himself wondering if his father had known where he would end up when he'd told Jon to go to White Harbor. After a while, Jon had finally gave in to his curiosity, still breathless and dizzy from the fight. What could be the harm in asking a question? Berqo's answer surprised him, but really, he should have expected it.

“Greyjoy's Rebellion.”  
  
_Of course_. Jon was interested. He'd heard of the Rebellion, many times, from his father and Maester Luwin and Jory Cassel, but never enough. Out of respect for Theon, Jon supposed, same as why no one ever talked of his mother where a member of Lord Eddard’s family could hear.

“You fought together, then?”

Berqo nodded. “I was with Lord Westerling when they burned down Lannisport, ended up fighting with the Northmen, I saved a few of Manderly's men and he saved my life once or twice. Damn good lance he was.” The man shook his head, frowning and Jon, who remembered how big His Lordship had looked, sat on his throne like a walrus, couldn't help but snort.

“Damn good lance, aye,” Berqo continued. “Not at all like you, Jon Snow. I saw you the other day, don't keep your back that rigid or you'll fall down your horse the moment someone takes a hit at you.”

That was what Rodrick Cassel had always said. “Aye.”

“You do that, lad.” He rubbed a hand against his eyes, tired. “'Tis true you kept one of those krakens in Winterfell?”

It was the first time Berqo mentioned Jon's origins since that first day, and he found himself repressing a twinge of surprise.  
  
“Theon.”

“Theon.” The captain shook his head once again, before spitting on the ground. “Sissy name if I've ever heard one.”

He shook his head once again, and went looking for a flask of wine. 

* * *

One day, about three months since Jon had entered the Prince's service, he saw the man for the first time.

His name was Clovios, and he'd been the Prince of Pentos for four years, chosen after a wheat famine had caused the execution of his predecessor. The occasion was the Feast of the Maidens, when the most comely daughters of the city were chosen to be celebrated and revered and then fucked in six month time for the whole city to see.  
  
It was an important day in Pentos, Jon had learned, and almost all of the city's dignitaries – and a number of foreign Lords – were to attend the celebration. The situation called for more than the usual number of guardsmen assigned to the Palace, and Jon found himself guarding one of the doors to the internal courtyard. Eleven other men were with him and there wasn't much guarding to do, but every one of the guests had to pass through that door and there were plenty of people to see.

The Prince himself had come first, handsome and striking the real royalty should be like, the way Jaime Lannister had looked at the Welcoming Feast in Winterfell and Robert Baratheon hadn't. Prince Clovios was tall raven haired, his skin the colour of polished wood. He reminded Jon of Theon Greyjoy in looks and stance, and he couldn't be much older either. He wondered idly how long this one would last, before being killed same as the others before him.

Next were the Chiefs of the forty families with their forked beards, some of the richest merchant of Essos, and the maidens after that, five young women, each one more lovely than the last. They were all properly clothed, as the tradition required, but Jon could see each of their faces. One of them met his inquisitive gaze, beautiful dark eyes, and Jon felt something stirring inside him.

After that came the rest of the Pentoshi dignitaries, Magisters of lesser lineage and minor members of the families. One in particular caught Jon's attention, a massive man with crooked teeth and a fortune's worth of gems on his fingers. He had a look about him, of cunning and sharpness, and the other men seemed wary of him.

“Magister Illyrio hadn't visited the Palace in a long time,” Gozzo whispered in his thick Pentoshi dialect. “Not since he married a slave, one of them Valyrian of Lys, how they all hated that.”

Jon looked up, surprised. A Magister taking a bed slave as his wife? No wonder he had been shunned by his peers. That would have been… same as a Great Lord and a camp follower, he found himself thinking, and he knew that thought would bring him nothing good. He quickly thought of a question to occupy his mind.

“And what changed, now?”

“Why, the wedding.” Jon must have looked confused, for he added. “Khal Drogo's wedding. Illyrio's the one who got 'im that Dragon bride of 'is, he's more the richer now for it. And this Prince's a different one anyway.”

“Oh.” It made all the more sense now, even he had heard of Khal Drogo, who had never been defeated and commanded forty thousand screaming demons. Idly, Jon wondered if ‘Dragon bride’ meant that she was from Lys, too, another Eastern Lord marrying a whore.

“And that over there, that's Gavlin Cole o' the Golden Company. Best mercenary company there is.”

“I've heard of the Golden Company,” Jon said, feeling a twinge of curiosity for the blonde, one-eyed man.

“Course you have, Sunset Boy.” Gozzo laughed. “Everyone has.”

“What's he doing here?” Pentos wasn't at war, Jon knew that much. What'd they need sellswords for?

“Bugger me if I knew. Showin' off, I'd say.”

That could be. Maybe.

Next was some Braavosi lord, and one of the Magisters of Mys, his hair as dark as coal, and another man Gozzo said was from Asshai. They all went inside, one by one, until Gozzo had him and the others close the door to not bother the Prince and his guests as they dined and feasted and choose the maiden of the seas and the maiden of the crops from the beauties in the room, and then drank and feasted some more. Berqo himself, as Captain, had been inside, and Jon knew he would probably come up with some lewd tale about one Magister or the other.  
  
It was hours after that Gozzo had the door open again, to let out a much less dignified procession than the one that had gone in, reddened faces and loud voices and unsteady walks. The two new Maidens had come out first, right before the Prince. Then it was the other three, looking resentful and somewhat relieved, and the Magisters and nobles and dignitaries came after.

The guests went their separate ways after that, some looking for their own friends among the crowd and stopping to chat, and Jon found himself looking for the girl he'd seen before, the one with the beautiful onyx eyes, but the young women had been sent away from the courtyard as soon as they’d exited. They weren't nobles, after all, just fishermen' and farmers' daughters, and those of them who hadn't been chosen had no longer a reason to remain inside the Palace.

He'd been at it for a few minutes, scanning the crowd and trying to look at each one of the faces, when he felt some kind of tingle, felt watched.  
  
Jon turned his head and there he was, a man in rich robes with blonde hairs and little, piercing eyes. The same man from before, he realized, the one Magister who'd married the bed slave. Illyrio, Gozzo had called him, Illyrio whom Jon had thought cunning and clever and was now looking as if he was trying to solve a particularly complicated riddle. Illyrio, whose eyes seemed now to pierce directly into his soul.

The air was fresh and warm and fragrant, and Jon shivered.


	4. Chapter 4

As much as Jon had enjoyed guarding the Palace on the night of the Feast, he gladly welcomed the return to his usual duties with the rest of Gozzo's men. Glimpsing flashes of lights and splendor, of a life that wasn't his own; all this had reminded him of home, of wishing and wondering and being too close to things he could never have. The outer city, Jon had decided, suited him better than the Prince's marble halls, with no place for the wants and all the bitter regrets of the life he'd tried to leave behind. This way, at least, he knew exactly where he stood.

It was three days later that he saw the thief for the first time, shortly before dawn, on a morning cold enough that Jon had to carry a coat for the first time since he'd come to Pentos. The man had been a vision, a dark figure against the whitening sky, and Jon stood there and watched.

Jon should have stopped him, he knew, or tried to. He should have stopped him the very moment he saw the figure slipping out of the window of some rich merchant's mansion, but he hadn't. Maybe it had been the fact that he wasn't patrolling, simply walking to the city gate, alone and unarmed. Maybe he'd just been curious. He had never seen a thief before that night. Not a _real_ thief, at least, someone who didn't steal out of hunger or desperation, but out of sheer greed. A real thief, someone who made a life out of the work of others, that was almost as lavish and exotic as any of the Lords.

There were no real thieves in the North, and so Jon stood there and watched, fascinated, as the man slid and descending until he reached the ground with a final jump and started walking.

Jon followed.

* * *

A few hours later, he was in what could probably pass as a tavern. Jon had never heard of a tavern still open in the first hours of the morning, but a first look at the room had been enough for him to realize the place wasn't something Jon was accustomed to.

The room was dark and the air smelled like smoke and spices, a thin veil of gray mist that came from small braziers scattered around the room. They smelled like strong incense, like the candles in Lady Catelyn's Sept, and Jon almost didn't dare enter at first, half-expecting to see the Mother and the Warrior and the Stranger, all staring at him with their blank gazes.

He must have hesitated too long, long enough that someone had come up behind him and rudely shoved him away from the door.

"Move," a voice hissed.

The room was as dim as it was hot, and Jon did not particularly care to find out how the man at the door looked like; he simply stepped aside, wordlessly, still dazed, found his way to a bench and sitting down.

In the end, he remained there for hours, looking around and drinking some and simply thinking, and he was about to leave when someone sat down beside him and a hand landed on his shoulder.

"You there, lad."

It was a man, old enough to be Jon's father but still completely dark –haired, his perhaps even heavier than Jon's own. "What you doin' in here, lad?"

He sound like he was looking for troubles, and Jon took a steady breath, trying to look calm and aloof, the way Theon Greyjoy had managed so well. "Having a look," he answered, and the man seemed surprised enough that he just walked away, mumbling something under his breath.

It was nothing more than the truth. The thief had disappeared to do his dealings in some back room, then came out a few minutes later and left the place altogether, but Jon hadn't cared to follow him again. The man had been nothing, after all, it was his secret world Jon was interested in. He'd stayed there, breathing in the smell of spice and incense and found himself thinking back to the Feast, and the way Illyrio's eyes had followed him for all the time they'd both been in the courtyard together.

' _Tis nothing_ , Jon thought to himself. The man was a Magister, a man well read and traveled enough to know what Westerosi men looked like. Jon knew his looks still gave him away as a foreigner even when his accent didn't, his skin too pale and his hair too dark to pass as a man of the Free Cities. Perhaps others from Westeros might have fared better – people from the Westerlands and the South and Dorne – but not Jon. That was all, he tried to convince himself. _There's nothing else._

* * *

"You've got som'thin' on your head," Berqo observed a few days later, over dinner. "'S that a woman? Because, a woman is not worth it."

He was speaking Pentoshi, as he'd taken up doing every night, and Jon liked to think he had finally mastered the language. Berqo had laughed when he'd said that, long and hard. _Works just fine 'til you leave Pentos, lad. Then 'tis every City his own dialect, and the Ghiscari after that, and the Dothraki're the worst of 'em all. There's more languages than stars in the sky, Jon Snow._

And tonight the man was laughing again, looking at him expectantly, and Jon pinched the bridge of his nose before answering.

"'Tis not a woman."

"Shame," Berqo replied, without missing a beat. "Women aren't worth it, but they're good for the soul."

Jon had to laugh at that one. "The soul?"

"Aye." There was a light twitching in the other man's eyes, and he leaned in closer. "Bring you closer to your Gods, Jon Snow, as long as the price's not too much. Good for the soul, the spirit and the body."

"It's still not a woman, Berqo."

The other man shrugged and looked away, and that was when Jon spoke up. "You know the Magister Illyrio?"

If Berqo was surprised at the turn their conversation had taken he didn't show it. _Not a woman indeed_ , Jon almost said, and he could see Berqo smiling a somewhat sardonic smile, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Course not, Jon Snow. I'm a guard, not a knight. Told you that before, haven't I?

It was Jon's turn to let out a derisive smile now. "You know what I mean. Do you know anything?"

"I know _o' him_ , yes," the other man started, speaking in the Common Tongue this time. He was probably getting tired of laughing at Jon's accent. "I know that he's very rich, and knows many people. And that he got even richer, getting Khal Drogo that Dragon bride o' his. Pretty thing, I saw her once or twice." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

It was three weeks after the Feast, two weeks since the day Jon had seen the thief, and it seemed to him that, in those two weeks, the Magister had been coming up to the Palace every day. He couldn't be sure of that, having only been at the Palace a few times, but in each of those times Jon had seen the man, chatting up with other nobles or simply walking around.  
And, every time, Illyrio's eyes had met Jon's.

"No reason."

He could no longer blame it on his looks – there had to be a reason for the Magister Illyrio to take such an interest in Jon. He had even wondered, briefly, if the Magister liked boys. He'd felt ashamed for thinking that, imagining Lady Catelyn's stern mouth and his father's quiet disappointment in knowing Jon was having such thoughts, almost as ashamed as he did when he dreamed of being legitimized when he was a child. Still, many in Pentos did things that would have been unheard of in the North, and it wouldn't have done Jon any good to ignore it. It took him a few days to remember that the Magister had been married before, for love, and that there had to be a different reason for his interest.

Jon looked down at forearm, tracing the contours of a red cut with two fingers. They'd been using live steel today during their practice, and he'd gotten hurt twice. It was a few moments before he registered the rest of Berqo's words. "Dragon bride?" The man had spoken as though Jon should have known whom he was referring to.

"Targaryen." Jon must have looked as surprised as he felt, and Berqo laughed.

"You're from the Seven Kingdoms, and you didn't know where your King ended up?"

"'S not my king," Jon spat out immediately, remembering the crypts of Winterfell and the stories Old Nan used to tell him and Robb, tales of fire and madness and betrayal.

"You should know," he added after a moment, remembering what Berqo had said to him. "You fought for King Robert."

" _With_ his army." The other man smiled again. "Never got me a proper look to His Grace, myself. The mightiest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, the men all agreed, but no dragon."

"Might be," Jon found himself saying. "Still doesn't matter." It was the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had.

"There are no more dragons."


	5. Chapter 5

Jon had been living in Pentos for close to six months when the _Tempest’s Daughter_ arrived from King’s Landing; and that was the day when everything changed.

New ships docked in Pentos every day, from every corner of the known world. The harbor wasn’t nearly as big as the ones in Braavos, or even King’s Landing, but it was still impressive. The docks were as entertaining as the Prince’s Palance, in their own way, a hundred different looks and smells and languages filling the air, and Jon had made an habit to pass through every few days or so.

Jon hadn’t been there when the ship had made land, but he arrived shortly after and felt a bolt of surprise in seeing _Tempest’s Daughter_ anchored at the Western Dock, realizing with a start that he hadn’t seen another ship coming from Westeros in nearly a fortnight. Not that anyone had seemed worried – no ship was considered really late until a whole moon had passed – but still, it was curious.

He wasn’t the only one, or so it seemed. There was a small crowd at the docks, mostly men Jon’s age, or even younger, the _Tempest’s_ crew standing in the middle of it, with the face of men who knew they wouldn’t have to spend a dime for their drinks that night.

“‘M tellin you,” one of the sailors said, green eyes darting in his sun-darkened face, “that Fat King is dead, deader than Prince Losso, may the gods rest his soul.”

“They didn’t let us leave til it was all done, the king buried and that runt crowned,” the man continued, his words slipping into a thick, foreign cadence Jon couldn’t make out, but at that point he didn’t much minded anymore.

 _King Robert_ , _dead_ , he thought. He remembered the man he’d seen in Winterfell, fat, disillusioned and long past his prime; but still to know him dead… _He was of an age with Father_ , Jon remembered. It seemed unreal. People died every day, even young, healthy men half Robert Baratheon’s age, but kings only died when they were old and white. _Or mad_.

He wondered idly what this would mean for his father, for his family. Would Lord Eddard go back to Winterfell? Surely the Lannisters wouldn’t want him to stay as Hand of the King. What would that mean for Jon himself, he still did not know. Certainly his father would welcome him back, as Jon had always known he would; but his Lady wouldn’t, and he would still be a Snow, to his brothers and Lady Stark alike.

 _No_ , Jon knew, _I am not going back_. But still, Winterfell felt so much farther away than King’s Landing, somehow. He had been planning on visiting in another few moons, to see Arya again, and now everything was different. _Someone has to know if Father will stay in King’s Landing or go back_ , Jon decided. One of the sailors must, for sure.

He made his way to the nearest man, a short, wiry Lyseni with hard eyes that reminded Jon of Jory Cassel somehow. “You must be thirsty, after such a voyage,” he began, and the man gave out an appreciative smile. “Maybe some ale would help?”

The other man chose the place, some small, smelly tavern a short way from the docks that Jon had never been in. He would have expected a better venue – he surely would have chosen a more expensive place, if he’d had someone else paying for his drinks – but surely did not complain. It was clean enough, despite the smell, and that seemed to come more from the kitchen than from unkemptness.

Jon asked for food for himself, knowing better than daring to show up dizzy to the Palace later on; and let the sailor lead him to his table of choice. Names weren’t exchanged, but he wasn’t interested in that.

“Did I hear that right,” he began, eagerness clear in his voice. “King Robert’s dead?”

The Lyseni let out a long, hearty laugh Jon wouldn’t have expected from such a small man. “Dead as last week mutton,” he confirmed, snickering as though from private joke. “But they say it was a pig that killed him.”

“And the Prince crowned,” Jon hurried him, no caring to learn more about the King’s death, or whatever a pig had to do with it. He had his confirmation; and it was enough.

“Aye, and thanks the gods for that,” the sailor answered. “They wouldn’t let us leave ‘til it was all done, not after the king’s brother left the city to go get an army. Those damned goldcloacks said they couldn’t risk traitors, as if any of us would care ‘bout whoever the hell rules in Westeros.”

He spat on the floor at that, giving Jon a sideways grin. He must have recognized Jon’s own Westerosi provenance from his accent – after all, most people did.

“The king’s brother,” Jon repeated, slowly. Robert had two, that much he remembered, but why would any of them turn traitor he could neither fathom not care. Then again, Jon wouldn’t want Joffrey really ruling either – he remembered all too well the princeling’s visit to Winterfell and his farce of a swordplay against Robb. _A little shit indeed_ , he thought with a smile.

“What about the King’s Hand?” Jon asked, eager; and the sailor’s head jerked up at that.

“Lord Stark,” he repeated. “The king’s Hand. Did he leave King’s Landing as well?”

The Lyseni raised his wooden cup and took a long sip; almost the whole thing, by the sound of it. He raised a hand to signal from another one, narrowing his eyes at Jon. “And how’d you guess that, lad? Best part of my story, and I hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

Jon leaned in closer, catching a good sniff of the alcohol and spices on the other man’s breath as he did so. _Best part of my story_ , he’d said, with the sort of knowing look that street vendors got when they had a particular interesting piece.

“He _tried_ to leave, that’s it,” the Lyseni continued, and Jon felt his heart start to race in his chest. “Got ‘imself a ship ‘n everything, and the Queen caught him just in time.” He exchanged his empty cup for another one, Jon’s eyes trailed on him the whole time. “She wouldn’t let him, y’see, said Stark was a traitor like the brother.”

“The new king had his head cut of in front of the Sept, for the whole city to see,” the man continued, taking another long swallow; and Jon felt the world spin all around him.

“What,” he heard someone saying, but surely it couldn’t possibly be him. His voice had never sounded so low, so raw; and Jon couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out where that noise was coming from. It felt almost like a rumble, he decided, like some deep mountain torrent; and it took him a while to realize that it was the sound of his own blood in his hears.

“Had Stark beheaded on top of that hill,” the sailor repeated. “Balor, or what’s called; I’ve never been there myself, Too busy with the ladies at the docks, you understand, and…”

The voice seemed to grow hazy, or perhaps the whole world had. Even the colors had dulled some, black spots appearing suddenly in front of his eyes, and Jon laid down his head to rest his forehead against the rough wood of the table.

“…Lad,” he heard someone calling, a musical accent he could not place. “Lad?”

Southern, he decided, _Essos_ Southern, that was it. Lyseni. _The sailor?_

“Everything well?” The man continued, and Jon did his best to sit up straight, blinking away tears from the corner of his eyes.

“Aye,” he managed to spit out, with that horrible chocked voice that was not his. “Thank you.”

He took out some coins from one of his pockets, slammed his hand down on the table. “Drink some more, it’s on me.”

Jon stood up to walk away and stumbled, his legs suddenly too unsteady to hold his weight. _…Cut off his head for the whole city to see_ , he found himself mumbling over and over, the Lyseni’s words repeating in his head. Certainly it could not be true; he must have had it wrong. _Whores and sailors lie_ , wasn’t that what everyone said? Sailors lied and the man had been tired and thirsty, more than ready to make up some story to get himself one more drink. He only had to find someone else, Jon decided, someone else to ask questions to, someone who’d confirm that the Lyseni had lied. _He must have_.

Jon headed back to the docks, having made up his mind; but he’d been walking for a few minutes when he realized he didn’t know where he was going. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, Jon decided, trying to trace back his steps – _right and right again, and then I should have gone left… did I?_ It all felt so fuzzy, and Jon had a vivid memory of being twelve again, of a summer chill and the fever that’d come from it, Old Nan’s hands icy against his skin.

“Jon Snow,” someone called, and he turned with a start.

It was a tall, imposing man, with a short black beard and green eyes; and Jon had the distinct feeling he’d already seen him somewhere. _But where?_

“Jon Snow,” the man repeated; and once again it was not a question. He’d already known who he was, somehow, although how, and why, and what for…

“My master has a proposition for you.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The sun settled on Pentos, as it did every night; not seeming to care that today was not a day like the others.

 _My father is dead_ , Jon Snow thought, _and what is there left for me?_

The green-eyed man was giving him sideways glances, carefully, as though he were afraid that Jon might jump on him like a savage beast. _He would not be far from the truth_ , Jon knew. He had never felt more like a savage beast in his life.

 _Ghost_ , he wondered, _where is Ghost?_ At Berqo's house, Jon remembered, where he should have been as well. It was almost time for him to go to the Palace, he knew; but he could not bring himself to mind. His feet led him where the man went, faster and faster; and it was a while before Jon realized where they were going.

 _The hills_ , he thought. Where the rich and powerful lived; and no one that Jon knew. He made to halt but the other man turned to look at him, as if he had known what Jon had been thinking.

"Follow me, Snow," he said. "We are almost arrived."

He led him towards a building that was a stronghold more than a mansion, and behind the walls to a small gate covered in ivy.

"Who lives here?" Jon asked him. "Who's your master?" The man did not answer, but Jon did not care. His questions had been half-hearted at best, his mind still swirling in confusion from the news. P _rince Joffrey had Father's head cut off in front of the Grand Sept_. The words still sounded unbelievable in his mind. _How was it possible?_ Jon couldn't believe no one had tried to stop Joffrey; but then he remembered the golden-haired boy from Winterfell, his cruel smile when he'd dared Robb to fight with live steel.

"Here," the man said. They were inside, waiting by a small door that looked reinforced enough to hold off an elephant; and the other man gestured for Jon to enter.

"You wait here," he said, stern, but not overly unkindly. "My master will come for you."

 _Your master has a mansion and guards and yet he can't have me brought to him?_ Jon wondered. Had it been another day, he would have been suspicious. Whoever the man's mysterious master was, he clearly did not want Jon to be seen in his house, and it could not mean anything good.

 _Still, I am too far gone to care_.

He found himself waiting in the half-dark room, sat on a simple wooden chair so unlike the expensive furniture he'd imagined to find in the mansion; and he was thinking of Robb. The new lord of Winterfell now, no longer the boy he'd played with in the godswood. _Should I go home, and help him avenge Father?_ Because Robb would be marching South with Father's – with _his_ banners, of that Jon had no doubt. But what could Jon do, if even he got back in time? He could imagine the cold line of Lady Catelyn mouth, her icy blue eyes…

 _No_ , he thought. _I had it right the first time_.

There was nothing left in Westeros for Jon Snow, especially with his father dead. _Nothing but Arya_ ; but she wouldn't be going anywhere….

He turned towards the door as he heard it open; and saw the man getting inside.

It was the Magister; Jon recognized him at once. The fat man who he'd caught staring more than once; the one who'd married the bed slave. _Illyrio_.

"Indeed," the man said, and Jon realized he'd spoken the name out loud. "And you must be Jon Snow."

The magister paused, looking at him as if Jon were some sort of puzzle to be solved. "I have to say," he began, closing the door behind him and making for the chair close to Jon's, "that you do look a great deal like Lord Stark."

Jon flinched; but the other man kept going all the same. "I have never seen him up close, of course, but the resemblance is… startling."

He couldn't take it anymore. "He's dead," Jon heard himself saying. "My father. Is he?"

Jon knew it already, he _knew_ … but when the magister nodded, he felt a weight drop in his chest all the same. "I am sorry," the man said. "The boy king, Joffrey, had him beheaded for treason."

 _Treason_. "That's…," Jon had to pause, to find the right words. Impossible, that was what it was. Lord Stark would never commit treason – not ever.

"A lie?" Illyrio provided. "Of course. There's more to it," he continued. "But now…"

And suddenly Jon was reminded that he was in a room he'd never seen before with one of the most powerful men in Pentos, who seemed to know everything about him. He sat up straighter, feeling truly alert for the first time that day.

"What do you want from me?" Jon asked; and Illyrio laughed.

It was a clear, melodic sound, not something he would've expected to hear coming from such a massive man. "Your services, Jon Snow," the man said. "You are a guard, are you not? And I have some interests to keep eyes on. People to protect, as Westerosi as you are."

"You would be a good fit."

_I doesn't make sense._

"Why me?" Jon asked. If he was a man from the Seven Kingdoms he was looking for, he could surely find some exile knight or old soldier who could speak the Common Tongue. Not a bastard boy.

He felt confused. The magister, instead, looked delighted. "I told you, boy. There is more to Lord Stark's death that you know, and one of his blood…" the man gave out a grin, yellow teeth glistening in the candlelight.

"You said you have people to protect," Jon said, slowly. "People from Westeros. Who…?"

"Oh, old friends," the magister answered. "A mercenary I used to know, years ago, and his young son. And a girl I once helped give away at a wedding, though she doesn't need much protection where she's now, I wager."

He stopped to look at Jon, his small yellow eyes piercing into Jon's. "I can tell you what happened to Ned Stark, Snow," he said. "All the truth you'd never get otherwise."

"And I can give you the means for revenge."

And that was all that Jon Snow needed to know.


	7. Chapter 7

They had been living in Qohor for close to a year when Illyrio's latest message arrived; and, with it, the riders.

Griff hated Qohor with a passion. He hated the endless forest and dampness in the air; the slow, muddy flow of the Qhoyne; the unintelligible inland dialect, so different from those of Pentos and Tyrosh; and their goat god most of all.

Aegon seemed to agree.

"Shouldn't we be in Norvos by now?" he asked that day; as he had been doing for the last six months.

They never spoke their true names aloud, not even when they were alone. For all the time Griff spent thinking about it, the boy's name had only ever crossed his lips an handful of times, and it was better this way.

If there was one thing he had learned from Lemore, it was that using one's assumed names, even between friends, was the best precaution for safety; and so Aegon only called him _Griff_ , or _ser,_ he himself always called Aegon _boy_ , and it had worked well enough for more than ten years.

Sometimes he called him _son_ , for the benefits of any stranger who might be listening; but, as much as he loved Aegon as if it were his own, the ghost of Rhaegar never truly left the room.

Not that Griff particularly minded.

"We have to wait," he told Aegon, the same thing he'd been saying for the last six months. "You know that."

Aegon knew; but he also knew that Griff was as eager to leave as he was, and perhaps even more. _How long of a march to Vaes Dothrak?_ Daenerys Targaryen had been married to the horselord for longer than they had been in Qohor, and the khalasar must certainly be on the way back by now.

And, after that, he did not know. Griff had been the one behind the plan, the first time; he and the Magister and the Spider. _And Myles as well, though he did not live long enough to see it unfold_.

But the Usurper was dead now, and they would need a new one.

Aegon scoffed. "Wait and wait and wait," he said. "I'm sick of it. When did you get so _old_?"

Griff wondered if it was the waiting the boy resented, or Lemore's absence. _She has been a good influence for him_ , he thought; but Griff the discharged sellsword would have no use for a septa, and so Aegon's tutors had stayed behind.

"If you are so bored," he told the boy instead. "Perhaps I should talk to Master Larro. Seems to me he isn't giving you enough work."

Master Larro was a carpenter, and a good one at that. There were almost as many carpenters as there were backers in Qohor, and twice as many woodchoppers; and, for all that Young Griff the sellsword's son was the best apprentice Larro had ever had, Aegon the exiled prince found the work terribly boring.

Aegon grinned at him. "No need for that," he said; and Griff found himself smiling at him, if sternly. _When did he grow so much?_ he wondered, but already knew the answer.

 _In the same time it took you to grow old_.

The message arrived that evening, a strip of paper tied tight to a pigeon's paw. The bird was gray, and couldn't have been much different from the ravens of Westeros, but the words were dark all the same.

_What will we do now?_

"Aegon," he called, somber, and the boy flinched at the name – and at what it could mean. "Come and sit down."

"What?" he asked, wary. "Did something happen?" His eyes darted from Griff's to the letter in his hands, and his eyes widened. "Is it… It's not Lemore, right? Or the others…"

It never failed to surprise Griff how emotional Aegon could be at times, when Rhaegar had been always so composed all the times. Griff had seen him lose control only once that he could remember, and it had been almost frightening.

He hoped Aegon would never know such anger, never had reasons to.

"No," he told the boy. "Not Lemore. It's… your father's brother, Viserys."

"Ah," Aegon said, relaxing visibly. He had never met Viserys, nor had Griff thought it important. Viserys had been a scrawny, sullen child who'd grown into a cruel, arrogant man; and he hadn't been looking forward to the day the Beggar King would learn that he wasn't the rightful king at all.

"Viserys is dead," Griff heard himself say, tasting the words. There was no emotion there, he noticed; nothing at all. Yes, it had been Viserys that Khal Drogo had promised his riders to, but he had never particularly wanted to see the Seven Kingdoms sacked by barbarians.

It was some time before Aegon spoke again.

"I don't care," he said, slowly. "I know maybe I should, but I don't care."

"Does that make me heartless?" Aegon asked, startling him.

"Of course not." _If you were relieved, on the other hand, like I am…_ "You did not even knew him, it is to be expected."

Griff raised his gaze from the message to look at Aegon. "But you needed to know," he said. "Because the plan has changed."

Despite everything, Aegon smiled. "Does it mean that we're going to Norvos?" he asked. "Finally?"

"The plan changed," Griff reminded him. "We are going to Myr."

He did not like Illyrio, but he trusted him. "Ser Rolly will be joining us in a few days, and a messenger of Illyrio's, too." The magister would never trust sensitive information to a bird, and never would Griff.

The messenger arrived barely a fortnight after that, surprising Griff to the point of suspicion. Either the Magister had deliberately waited to inform him of Viserys's death – and he couldn't see _why_ he would have – or the messenger had already left Pentos before Illyrio received the news. _And why would Illyrio send a man all the way from Pentos?_

But then Griff saw the Illyrio's rider, face to face; and everything became clear.

Because Magister Illyrio hadn't sent him a man, he'd sent two. One was his green-eyed enforcer, Drollo, a man Griff knew well. The other…

The other was a young man, a boy even, probably even younger than Aegon was. He looked Westerosi from head to toe, with his fair skin and dark hair. And gray eyes that reminded Griff of Stoney Sept, and the worst day of his life.

The boy had Ned Stark's eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Whatever Jon had expected to see after leaving Pentos, it hadn’t been this.

Magister Illyrio’s mysterious ally, the person who would help him avenge his father’s death, the Westerosi exile backed by the richest man Jon had ever met… after all of this, Jon surely hadn’t imagined Griff to be a blue-haired knight living in a small house in Qohor, surrounded by trees and nothing else.

And he definitely hadn’t been expecting the boy.

The boy, because that was what Young Griff was, barely older than Jon if that, and greener than Jon himself – a mercenary’s son, who had yet to see a real battle.

Or no mercenary at all, Jon remembered. Looking at them, it was easy to notice, the too-open, trusting look on the boy’s face, the way he carried himself as if he knew he would be obeyed. He reminded Jon of Robb –

Robb, who was somewhere in the Riverlands fighting a war against their father’s murderers, and Jon resolved to do the same, in his own way.

“This is Griff,” Drollo – Illyrio’s man – said, pointing at the mercenary with the blue hair and the hard eyes. “The lad’s his son.”  
Griff’s eyes were trailed on Jon like those of a hawk, with an intensity that let him unsettled. He’d never felt more vulnerable than he did under that gaze, never felt more naked as he did now, in front of a man who seemed to be staring into his very soul.

“And this,” Drollo continued, “is Jon Snow.”

There was a flash of recognition passing through Griff’s face, the look of a every Westerosi man who could tell a bastard by his name, and Jon had to swallow the familiar twinge of bitterness. _That_ , of all things, he had not missed.

“A Stark bastard, aren’t you, boy?” the man asked; and next to him his son started in surprise – the same surprise Jon knew must have showed on his face. He’d been told many times how much like Lord Eddard he looked, but he’d never expected to someone to recognize his Stark features this far East. “And why would Illyrio send a _Stark_ , of all people?”

I’m not a Stark, Jon wanted to say; but Drollo spoke up before he could. “There’s more to it, ser,” he said. “Unexpected news.” He handed Griff the piece of parchment they’d been carrying since Pentos, sealed with purple wax and Illyrio’s initials. It was probably something about his father’s death, Jon suspected and he found himself wondering if Griff the exiled knight had ever met Lord Eddard Stark. He must have, if he’d recognized Jon; across a battlefield, on a side that wasn’t that of the winner.

“ _Old_ news, by now,” the mercenary snorted, but he took the parchment all the same. “Lad,” he said, and the unexpected note of gentleness made it clear that he meant his son and not Jon, “the messenger and I have unexpected news to discuss. Would you care to show our… _northern_ friend around the grounds?”

He said northern as if it’d been an insult, a dirty word to spit out before it could taint his tongue. Jon Snow, the _bastard_ , was no stranger to insults; but it had never been so ferocious, so _personal_ – and then it dawned on him, that the mercenary didn’t hate the part of him that made him a bastard, only the one that made him a Stark.

“Jon Snow,” someone said, slow and lazy, as if trying the name for size – it was the other boy, Griff’s son; Jon had almost forgotten that he was there. “There isn’t much to show here, as you might have noticed,” he said, with a roll of his eyes at the thick forest surrounding them, “so I suppose we might as well talk instead.”

And he sat on the ground there and then, laying down on the green grass. He gave Jon a look as if challenging him not to follow his lead, _expecting_ him to, and – _yes_ , Jon thought to himself, _he’s_ so much _like Robb_.

“My name is Griff,” the boy offered, eventually. “Young Griff they call me, to tell me apart from my father, but you’re better off calling me _Griff_ and him _ser_. Or not calling him anything at all,” the boy – Young Griff – continued. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

“I noticed,” Jon said, sitting down on the grass next to Young Griff, ignoring the other boy’s satisfied smirk. It was better than standing up and waiting, at any rate. “He reminds me of my father’s wife.”

He’d never said _that_ out loud before – Lady Catelyn’s dislike for her husband’s son was plain enough to see, and speaking of it at Winterfell would have been disrespectful. Still, they were in _Essos_ now, and if Griff the mercenary reminded him of Lady Stark he was at liberty to say so – and saying so he would.

“Your father’s wife,” Young Griff repeated. “Lady Catelyn Tully, of Riverrun.”

Jon winced, surprised, and Young Griff merely shrugged. “My father’s good with faces,” he said. “If he thinks you are Stark’s son, then you are. And I’ve been instructed in heraldry; I wager I know more lords’ names than you do.”

“I wouldn’t been so certain.” Jon had always made a point of attending all his lessons, and doing as well as Robb did – sometimes even better, only to prove to himself that he could. But that was all gone now, when he’d left Winterfell and the North, and gone twice over now that his father was dead.

“The Lannister Queen had my father executed,” he heard himself say, far calmer than he should have sounded; and it was Young Griff’s turn to make a surprised noise. If Drollo was in the house telling the father, there was no reason why Jon could not tell the son, especially when the news was all over half of Essos already, spreading by ship and pigeon and rider like a fire in the summer. “Right after King Robert died.”

“Robert is dead?” Young Griff asked, some half-question that was more of a strangled cry. “The Usurper is dead,” he repeated; and this time it was no question at all, just a boy tasting his words over and over, whispering them like a prayer. “The Usurper is dead.”

 _The Usurper is dead_.

And that was when Jon realized.

There were people who called Robert _the Usurper_ , Maester Luwin had taught him, men exiled after the Rebellion, and those who fled, and Targaryen supporters all over Essos. Even his father had said the same, once.  
And Jon had known, he’d _known_ that Illyrio had been the one behind Daenerys Targaryen’s wedding to Khal Drogo – a dragon bride for the Khal, Jon remembered then. _You’re from the Seven Kingdoms, and you didn’t know where your King ended up?_ His mind had gone to Lyanna then, and Brandon and Lord Rickard and all the Stark men House Targaryen had killed, when he’d said, _he’s not my king_. But now the new king had killed a Lord Stark same as Aerys had –

and Jon had heard Illyrio’s men whisper of Dothraki, and Griff who seemed to hate House Stark had a son who called Robert _Usurper_ , and wouldn’t that explain Illyrio’s amused chuckle just fine, the way he must have felt so clever, sending Eddard Stark’s son to some Targaryen loyalist… to do _what_ , exactly?

What the _hell_ had he gotten himself in?

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm [on tumblr](http://www.kyhlos.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing. See you there?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dancing Through the Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007318) by [mysunandstars01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysunandstars01/pseuds/mysunandstars01)




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